


(how we need) another soul to cling to

by birminghams (romantiser)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romantiser/pseuds/birminghams
Summary: “I wanted to shoot him.”The confession falls into the gaps of silence that space the conversation out, a fumble of words that prompts Tommy to advance towards you, his eyes never once leaving yours. It’s a secret shared in the midst of the darkness that’s beginning to fall over the city; a vague truth in return for the protection of the Peaky Blinders. He has a weariness about him, and the way he regards you seems to unsettle the fraught tension in the air.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You
Kudos: 24





	(how we need) another soul to cling to

**“I WANTED TO** shoot him.”

The confession falls into the gaps of silence that space the conversation out, a fumble of words that prompts Tommy to advance towards you, his eyes never once leaving yours. It’s a secret shared in the midst of the darkness that’s beginning to fall over the city; a vague truth in return for the protection of the Peaky Blinders. He has a weariness about him, and the way he regards you seems to unsettle the fraught tension in the air.

“Hand it over.”

He edges closer; ready to accept the offending weapon that’s hidden somewhere under the coat that’s draped over your shoulders. His coat, to be exact. In what he deemed as a gentlemanly thing to do has backfired on him; now you have an extra layer to conceal the one thing he doesn’t trust you to handle. He’d only wanted to ensure you were warm in a weather surge that seemed to engulf the city in a brisk chill, morning till night.

He knows fucking better now.

He steps up beside you, immediately scrutinising the way your body flinches at the movement. It’s not something he’s ever encountered before; he knows not to assume it’s on his behalf because it’s not him that you’re suddenly afraid of. It reignites the fire deep within his gut as the longing for spilt blood consumes him once more. It’s a calling for revenge on your behalf: no one messes with a Shelby and gets away from it.

He reaches for you, past the broken facade that crumbles.

His hands steady themselves against your ribcage as you breathe through the discomfort that travels down the length of your body. It’s easy to tell the difference between this and the memory playing on a loop every time you close your eyes, but it doesn’t stop the revulsion that burns in your gut. Tommy’s hands never wander into unknown territory, he doesn’t expect your body as a price for protection, and he doesn’t treat you like a whore; someone he can discard later.

“I still want to shoot him,” you speak again, voice taut with the raw anger that seems to be replacing the confusion that was there before it. “I want to blow his fucking brains out and watch his blood paint the wall for what he did to me. I want to ⏤”

“I’m not him.”

A pause, and then, “I know.”

“What did he do to you?”

“What he thought he was entitled to,” you answer, lifting your gaze up to meet Tommy’s. “What he assumes a whore is meant for, or at least he gave it his best shot.”

It’s Tommy who stiffens this time.

He drags in a large breath of the sharp air, refilling his lungs with the smell of the infamous city that bows at his name. He realises how little it means when he witnesses the flicker of fear in your eyes as he watches you assess the street for any dangers lurking in the dark. It accelerates the burning flame that’s boiling his blood below the surface.

It’s anger for the world for placing you in his path.

It’s anger at himself for failing to protect you.

He offers his hand to you, gently, a carefully extended olive branch that you regard with suspicion. Tommy’s never sugarcoated a situation with gentleness and compassion. Compassion doesn’t have a place in war, not unless your card is already marked, so you brace yourself and meet his steely gaze with your own.

“Hand it over,” Tommy tells you, a softness to his voice that curls around each word. “Hand it over before you do something we’ll both end up regretting.”

“Don’t fucking speak for me.”

Tommy dips his head lower, the warmth of his breath fanning over your neck as he manoeuvres you so that your back is pressed up against the wall. He steadies you with a simple hand on your waist; his fingers splayed across your stomach with a tender touch. He glances around him, seeking solace in the fact that there’s no one else around as he refocuses his heavy, unrelenting stare back on you.

“I wouldn’t fucking regret it.”

“That’s dangerous territory to be in,” he answers you in a low voice, reaching up and unclipping the gun from your hip because Thomas Shelby doesn’t ask twice. He empties the bullets out into his palm before he flips his hand over, watching them fall onto the cobbled path at your feet, the sound echoing into the night. “Let me deal with it.”

“I’ll be seeing you around, Shelby.”

Except it’s never that easy with him.

He’d never just let you walk away without a second thought. He reaches his hand out again, fingertips brushing against your wrist before he spins your body back into his. He leans in closer than he was before, his whole body riddled with the tension added to the ever growing burden that he carries with him.

“Spoken like someone who assumes I don’t know about the extra gun you keep in your bedside drawer for safety.”

Tommy’s voice is harsh against the stillness of the night that blankets Birmingham while the city sleeps. It gives you a moment to indulge in your thoughts as you furtively cast a quick eye over the houses closest to you. They’re on the slightly smaller side, but they’re clean and habitable, and sometimes you can imagine yourself living in one. It’d be a space to call home, somewhere to build a family with a spouse who adores you, maybe even a dog to keep your feet warm when the sun goes down. It’s a fantasy at best; a dream that you long to be real.

“Do you want to know what I had for my tenth birthday?”

Tommy glances at you just long enough to dip his head in your direction. It’s a small encouragement on his part, but the weight on your shoulders seems to lighten at the gesture.

“My father gave me a gun,” you answer, recalling the memory of it as though it had only occurred just yesterday. “He took me into the woods behind our house, and he taught me how to use it. He taught me how to hide it and how to reload it. I practised for hours just to hit the targets he’d laid out for me, even when the gun felt too heavy for me to handle.”

“Guns are a heavy burden to bear at any age.”

“He told me that I would need to use it someday,” you continue, ignoring the way the previous unshed tears seem to trail down your cheeks now. “I didn’t believe him, and that was my first mistake. I was thirteen when I had to pull that gun out to save myself. I trusted a boy who told me he loved me and that I could be his. I was a naive kid with a boy who thought he owned me, so I shot him in the foot. It was too late by then, he’d already branded his touch into my skin, and I couldn’t stop feeling his hands on me for weeks afterwards.”

“I can’t begin to imagine how he walks right.”

“Men think they own us, Mr Shelby,” you reply, stepping away from him. It’s comforting, in a way, to see him almost respect the boundaries you’re constructing for him. “Men think they can buy our loyalty so we can birth their spawn, only to be treated like nothing after our job’s done. Men don’t deserve us. Men don’t deserve me.”

“I believe that,” Tommy answers, with a slight curl to his lips, “but you are not a fighter. Never have been.”

“Spoken like someone who has no idea that I carry two guns with me at all times.”

It’s perhaps only a second later that you have Tommy pinned up against the wall, your gun pressed hard against his chin. He smiles against the heaviness of death beckoning him; it’s a familiar feeling these days, but it doesn’t scare him.

He’s even less scared of you.

“Oh, I was well aware of the second gun, love,” Tommy murmurs, chuckling lightly at the stunned expression that seems to flit across your features. “I also know about the pocketknife you keep between your breasts, but that’s a question for another time. Do you want to put a bullet in my head?”

“No,” you exhale, adding, “I could never⏤”

He observes you, examining every brief flicker of emotion that buries themselves in the lines of your face. He’s studying every sharp angle of your face, every single inch of you imprinted into his memory, and it’s only when he feels you shivering against him that the realisation seems to strike home.

“Shoot me.”

But you lower the gun, taking a step away from him.

He tries to close the distance though, and it feels like you can’t quite catch your breath. One, two, three⏤

“No.”

He takes one step towards you. “Shoot me.”

“Thomas,” your voice is barely a whisper now, “please don’t.”

Another step. “I said, put a fucking bullet in me.”

“No, no, no. I can’t.”

One more step. “Do it.”

“Stop it.”

He’s getting louder in his demands, his voice echoing along the empty streets. “Pull the fucking trigger.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to.”

“No matter how many bullets you put in me, no Peaky Blinder would dare put a fucking bullet in you.”

The gun clatters to the ground as it slips through your fingers. It takes a moment for Tommy’s words to sink in, but when they do, your eyes widen in almost disbelief as you stumble away from him. He knows you far too well, more than you know yourself sometimes and it’s unnerving to the point where you can’t catch your breath.

“It’s not why you want to kill that troubles me,” Tommy’s voice almost fades into the wind as it picks up around you. “It’s the who that I care for. No bullet belongs in you, do you hear me?”

“I ⏤”

He grabs your shoulders in a firm grip, pulling your body into his as he presses two fingers into your jaw, lifting it, so you’re looking right at him. “No fucking bullet belongs in you. Not one. Not even if you kill me right here, right now. Do you hear that? Do you fucking hear me?”

It’s almost like there’s a dam breaking inside of you at his words as you slump into him, his arms snaking around your back as he brings you in closer to his chest. He holds you, his embrace soothing all of the irrational fears that have been clouding your judgement for the last month. He whispers a few platitudes into your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as he pulls away from your touch, no matter how much he craves it.

“I hear you.”

He feels you melt into him after that, and his world shifts.

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted over on my [**tumblr**](http://birminghams.tumblr.com/).


End file.
